


Love Calls You By Your Name

by IAmInTwelve



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8758678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmInTwelve/pseuds/IAmInTwelve
Summary: The Doctor gets an unusual visitor...





	1. Chapter 1

_You thought that it could never happen_  
_to all the people that you became,_  
_your body lost in legend, the beast so very tame._

Beyond the vast Universe, _any_ Universe, in the deep, dark, uncharted plains of vacuum, lies a place. It is a place with no name, and is known across existence by various ones that civilizations made up, a reflection of their limited understanding of it. This place is not really a _place_ , with coordinates and whatnot, it simply _is._ Nor does it exist in any specific time; the past and the future have no meaning here – it _was_ , and it will always _be_. It is located at the nexus of Space and Time – a crossroad where infinite paths come together and in an instant, diverge. If one could see it, as the act is known among humans, it would appear to them as a sparkling bunch of countless strands, a dazzling tapestry of colors in every imaginable hue – all pinched into the barest space that could span a couple of heartbeats, but nothing more. Each thread was a time-stream, a living embodiment of every life ever lived, of every life that ever would.

This place-that-is-not does however have “space,” as we normally would understand. It appears as a various things, constantly redecorating to suit the whims of its occupant. Presently, the space has taken up the ambience of a 19th century train station, with an ornate waiting room, an impossibly long, and empty, platform. There is exactly one track adjoining this station, where through the steam that is billowing, and wisping, and clouding, and scattering, in the nowhere and nowhen, one can barely make out the shape of a train. It is modeled after one of the ancient trains from the 19th century. It sports six bogies, or compartments, all but empty. Every compartment is a deep, dark hue of red, almost the color of a rich, luscious wine, and adorned on the exterior with the phrase “Orient Express XVII,” (plated with gold.) A double-headed Fairlie, a Janus, leads this procession. There is no driver to this train, there is no need. There is no conductor to flag it either. The train does not have a schedule, although it did arrive, and it will leave somewhen. The Fairlie sits upon the tracks, almost like a contented bovine, periodically spouting some steam but in no hurry to leave, nor in any urgency to be driven. The train has deposited its only occupant on this very platform a few hours/weeks/years ago – the time does not really matter. What matters is that the passenger has arrived, and that he (or she) will leave when they desire. They are currently seated in the waiting room that lies exactly in the center along the platform’s length (How do you measure the center of an infinite platform, you ask? Well, we know not! The room chooses where it must, and it has chosen the center, so it must be…)

It is to the waiting room that we turn our attention to. Modeled after its namesakes in the same era in Earth history, the room is an elegant mixture of the sharp smell of new leather, the sweet woody notes of oak and cedar, the subdued, yet broad notes of dark green and the sharp tanginess of champagne flutes with intricate rim of iron and gold.

Our passenger is seated in a plush booth by a window, facing away from the platform. The view from the window is anything but – it is vacuum. To ordinary eyes, at least. But his (for it is definitely a ‘he’ – this time anyways) eyes are anything but ordinary. His eyes see not the inky black of the void, a darkness where even existence fears to venture. He sees, and he has often considered this ability a curse, a kaleidoscopic landscape that constantly shifts and realigns, randomly, with a mind of its own. Colors fly about like agitated birds, kingfishers perhaps, or maybe hummingbirds - never staying in one place for long, never visiting the same location again… The colors are strands, threads that have drifted off from the bunch – lives that play out suspended beyond Time and Space.

 _Lives beyond everything but the space of a heartbeat,_ he thinks out aloud.

From his perspective, the window is a screen, and the shifting landscape is a curtain that sets and resets by itself. Every so often, because the Universe is also cruel, and because it is _him_ – the strands align together to show him a face, a face so familiar, and so far...

He has come here, as he always does, to escape. He knows that the sorrow, the longing, the sadness, the never-ending ache, will catch up to him sooner or later. But until then, he comes here, in the place beyond all creation, to rest, to meditate (he snorts, or so they think!), to simply _be._

This is his private hideout, his canvas fort, his sand castle, his tree house, his cave, his place away from all the places that remind him of _her_. He comes here when his loneliness craves the only true solitude Existence has to offer.

On that last point, he is about to be surprised.

_Shouldering your loneliness_  
_like a gun that you will not learn to aim,_  
_you stumble into this movie house,_  
_then you climb, you climb into the frame._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor gets an unusual visitor...

_I leave the lady meditating_   
_on the very love which I, I do not wish to claim,_   
_I journey down the hundred steps,_   
_but the street is still the very same._

 

“Always, the same,” he thought, as took a sip from a tumbler, swishing the golden brown liquid almost reflexively. He turned to look outside, and caught sight of his own reflection. His eyes looked hollow, bereft of the forced energy he demonstrated to the outside world. His face, a gaunt network of creases over a severe chin, framed by pair of massive eyebrows. Above them, his silver curls spread about like a wild forest fire, giving him an air of a “wise old man.”

_Wise?_ he chuckled. _She would call me, daft! A daft old man. A daft old man with an equally daft box._

How many years had it been? He had lost count after the first thousand. But the years never mattered, never counted for a time-traveler like him. He could still go back to the very next day and die, having lived for thousands of years, and yet died within a few hours of that terrible, terrible day…

“I thought you would be younger,” his reverie was broken by another voice, a younger voice. He heard the person walk towards him, a sequence of heavy footsteps punctuated with a distinctive jingle and the creak of worn leather. He closed his eyes. “Of course, when I say ‘you,’ I actually mean ‘I.’” The speaker settled down across the table from him.

“Of course,” he spoke with his eyes closed. Try as he might, he could not stop the sarcasm from showing through. “I was wondering when _you_ would show up.”

“So she’s gone then?”

“Yes,” he opened his eyes and looked at his younger self. Well, an _earlier_ self, would be technically correct. “Never realized how ridiculous the bow tie looked. One thing I am glad is gone.”

“Don’t change the subject… That is what she did, _they_ did. I know better now. She is truly gone?”

“Yes.” He paused, and then added. “Both of them…”

The younger one let this news sink in for a few moments. The older one continued looking outside, seemingly oblivious to the other’s presence. None spoke for quite some time, and it was the younger one who spoke first.

“Hmmm… here’s what happened then. They are gone, both of them; I got older, grumpier, overcompensated for eyebrows, and hang on – you’ve got a Scottish accent?”

“So what? Lots of planets…”

“…have a north!”

They spoke in unison. For a brief moment, they shared a conspiratorial smile, before the younger one added.

“Gotcha!”

The older one’s expression did not retreat completely to its previous brooding state. His lips stretched out into a thin smile, though his eyes still kept their distance. He indicated the decanter and the tumbler with a raise of his considerable eyebrows and a subtle turn of the neck.

“No, thank you. Remember Napolean? Don’t want a repeat of _that,_ I assure you. Got my own.” As if out of thin air, a tea set materialized between them, of the deepest blue, with gold trimmings. The younger one picked up a pair of cup and saucer, and poured himself a generous cupful of the steaming dark liquid.

“When did you…” he left the question open, gesturing with his sliver of eyebrows.

“Soon after…” the older one replied.

“Does it help?” the younger one asked softly, with an earnest edge to his voice. The older one merely smiled in response.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” the younger one resumed with enthusiasm. He put his right hand inside his coat and brought forth a packet of biscuits, his favorite kind. He tore open the pack and sniffed it before offering one to the other person.

“The famous TARDIS self-destruct button?” the older one asked while removing a handful.

“Oi! Be careful, and I was thinking on my feet, thank you very much!”

The younger one dipped his Jammie Dodger into the tea and popped it right in. The older one bit into one circumspectly, and then followed it with a sip of his top-shelf bourbon. Both men sighed with content. They sat across each other, silently sipping away the moments.

It was the older one who finally broke the uneasy silence.

“So,” he asked the younger version. “What do we do next?”

 

_But here, right here,_   
_between the birthmark and the stain,_   
_between the ocean and your open vein,_   
_between the snowman and the rain,_   
_once again, once again,_   
_love calls you by your name._


	3. Chapter 3

“What do we do next?”

 The silence weighed heavily in the air between them.

 “We could talk,” the younger one replied.

 “What do you want to talk about? What could we talk about?”

 “How did it happen?” the younger one asked.

 “No specifics, remember?” the older one reminded him of one of their rules. If ever, two time-traveling versions of him ended up in the same space and time, they would never ask nor disclose events from the other’s future. Of course, with this being _him_ , it was always quite an exercise to determine _whose_ future. So the generally accepted norm was to never speak in specifics at all. “And, in any case, I do not remember anything, anything at all.”

 He looked up from his drink and into the eyes of his younger self. “Nothing.”

 “What did you do?” the younger one asked, softly, his eyes burning with each word. “ _What_ did you _do_?”

 The older one did not reply immediately. He turned his head to look outside the window, and kept a steady gaze on the colorful spectacle. The younger one banged his teacup down on his saucer, unmindful of the tea spilling over a spotless tablecloth. He was breathing rapidly now, his inquisitiveness bordering on impatience. He was about to speak, when the older one replied, without turning his head back. “As I said, I don’t remember.” The voice trembled slightly towards the end.

 “How can you not remember? How can you … not … remember?” the younger one stood up from his place, and began to pace furiously. “Have you forgotten completely? How could you…? What … what are you? … What have I become?”

 “No,” the older one finally turned his head to speak to him directly. When he spoke, it was with deliberation, each word carrying a ton of unresolved memories on its shoulders. “I remember vaguely, the events – the Ice Warrior, the Boneless, the Cybermen, the Mummy – I remember them, but I do not remember what happened. I recall her being a Dalek, or being in one, it’s all mixed up; I remember the snow – more than once, the snow surrounded us. I remember the cold, the deep, dark, water; I remember waiting, for an eternity, almost, in a cold, dark space -- waiting for her to open a lock.”

 He opened his right palm and ran the fingers of his other hand over it. “I remember what it felt when we were in danger. I remember what her hand felt in mine. And I know what these hands did; they killed…” the other flinched, visibly.

 “To protect her,” the older continued. “I know we visited Akhaten, saw wonders, were saved by the trees – I know I was saved. I know she saved my life, again and again. I know she did it willingly, with love. I remember it all … but I do not remember… her… Clara.” He exhaled her name. “Clara, My Impossible Girl.”

 He looked at his current companion, and found his younger version looking back at him in disgust.

 “You killed… someone?”

 “Yes… to save her.”

 “To _save_ her?" the younger voice countered incredulously. "To save her? What are you? You are not me, that is for sure. I look at you, look at your eyes, and I do not see myself. I don’t see the Doctor… I see something else…” his voice lowered and trailed off. “Who are you????”

 “I am the Doctor.” the older replied, the words carrying an assurance of a thousand stars.

 “No! You are not,” the younger version walked towards the table, his index finger pointing accusingly at the older.

 “You. Are. Not. The Doctor!” he screamed. “You are anything _but_! You went against everything we stood for, I stood for. You killed someone! You took a life!”

 He buried his face into his hands, and then ran his hair back, his palms wet with his tears.

 “I don’t know you… You are like the worst version of myself. A nightmare, a darkness… And you lost her … you lost _both_ of them! You have let me down, Doctor. You have let all of us down.”

 The older one turned his head down, his feature softening into a strange mixture of sadness and acceptance.

 “River was my wife too…”

 “But at least I never took her to see the singing towers! _You_ did!!”

 The younger one’s words echoed for a long time, bouncing off the walls, the tables, the chairs, and off themselves, as if some unnatural force was stopping them from escaping the room.

“You did, Doctor!” There was no mistaking the scorn in his voice. “ _You_ did!”


	4. Chapter 4

“You did!”

The older Doctor sat still for a long time, his eyes focusing on some dark, distant point in his past. Eventually, he turned towards his younger self, allowing himself a brief glance, but said nothing. The younger one continued his pacing, brisk and urgent, and he broke his stride abruptly a few times, probably to say something to the older one, but he too, said nothing. This game of silent volleys continued a dozen times until the older one broke the silence.

“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry…”

The younger one stopped in his tracks. He stood there, motionless, his breath cycling rapidly between his two hearts. He turned his head from side to side, as if hearing two sides in a conversation. Finally, he sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he stood up a bit taller and turned to face the table.

“You do realize that saying sorry does not serve as an absolution! It is not your free-pass!”

“Is that what I am now?” the older one enquired, after a pause. With every phrase, his voice grew softer. “In your eyes, in … _our_ _eyes_ , is this what I have become? A criminal?” He looked down at his hands, wrapped around the crystal tumbler.

The younger one softened his expression and resumed his position.

“You know I did not mean it like _that_!” he let out a long breath, and removed his glasses. He kept them on the table in between both of them, and turned them around, as if observing them for the first time. He removed his silk pocket-square, and began to clean the lenses in a fond, familiar gesture. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of _his_ memories. “We are both … aware of the choices that we have had to make, Doctor. I may not know the exact future, I may not know how or what happened between Clara and you, but make no mistake. I am aware, fully aware, of how you feel!”

“If I may ask,” the older hesitated, “where are you coming from?”

The young one did not answer for some time. He kept looking at the glasses, and the packet of biscuits lying on the table alternately. When he replied, his voice was an almost whisper – “Trenzalore…”

The older one said nothing.

“I know now,” he continued, softly, deliberately. “I know why I keep on meeting her. I know who she is, I know who we are.” He looked up to the face of the older Time Lord, who eyes seemed to grow several shades darker in an instant. The face he looked at seemed to be smiling, but the smile was tinged with a heavy sadness that he recognized all too well. He smiled back, “I do not want to know.”

“It’s alright. You will know soon enough.”

They exchanged a brief chuckle.

“And you are wrong about one thing.” The younger one tensed for a moment, while the older one continued. “You do not yet realize what she means to you… Not wholly, not completely… Trust me on this one.” He picked up his tumbler and drained it in a gulp.

“I will, Doctor!” the younger one raised his teacup and emptied it too.

They sat together in the place that was not a place, in time that was beyond all time, facing each other, knowing fully what each wanted to say, yet not ready to speak. The older one refilled his drink and took a sip, before he began his observation of the view outside the window. He sat still, his shoulders relaxed and his gaze as soft as he could allow. The young one, however, kept fidgeting with his teacup, refilling it and drinking from it a couple of times, before the pot ran out of tea. With apparently nothing to do, he pulled out a hefty tome from his jacket, and began to read. At least, he attempted to, but he could never go beyond a few lines. Again, it was the older one who broke the uncomfortable silence.

“Would it help,” he asked his startled companion, “if I say that they both chose the manner of … their exit? That they both, consciously or not, made the decisions that led us there? That they were brave, very brave – right up to the end.”

The younger one smiled as he took off his glasses and looked at them fondly. “Yes,” he nodded in agreement. “They are always brave.”

“I know… We are not…”

They shared another smile.

“Yes, Doctor, we are never brave.” He caught the older one looking at the glasses too. With a strange fondness that was surprising. “How much do you…” he let the words trail away.

“Everything. All of it,” the older Doctor answered. “Now you understand why…” He let his words trail off too.

“Why you had to forget? Forget her, forget this one time. Forget …”

“…The one… who mattered the _most_ …” the older completed the thought.

The younger Doctor raised his teacup as a toast.

“To them, _always_ them.”

The older Doctor followed suit. “To _them._ Who make us …” he seemed to be searching for a word.

“Who we are? All of _us? …”_ the younger hesitated before adding. “Who make us _whole_?”

The older Doctor pursed his lips slightly, as if lost in his own thoughts. After a while, he answered. “No, Doctor. Not _whole._ We are the whole of ourselves, at every moment. We are the sum of all the moments that came before us, the people that made us,…”

“… the faces that we used to be, all the people that we used to be, that we _are.”_

“Yes," the older Doctor agreed. "And no, not _whole._ She made me _complete!_ ” The creased face lightened up. “Yes, complete! One can be whole, yet find oneself utterly unfinished, half-living, until one meets the _other_ half. The mirror, the whole that completes us… Yes Doctor,” he now addressed the younger one directly. “She made me complete! My Impossible Girl, My Clara!”

“ _Our_ Clara,” the younger added softly, as a reminder.

The older one resumed his observation of the view, his expression a stoic combination of loss and something else... The younger Doctor tried to identify that _something else,_ but he could not, try as he might. After a few more silent moments, the younger one rose to leave. As he picked up his book and glasses, he waved his sonic screwdriver at the table and the tea set dematerialized into thin air.

“I will be seeing you then,” he addressed the older Doctor, who acknowledged with the barest nod.

The young one walked towards the door, and as was about to push open the massive revolving door when he stopped, as if he suddenly understood what that elusive expression meant. He turned around an asked the older Doctor, “So, Doctor! Did you really… I mean, actually, as a matter of record… I mean, did it really… work?”

The older Doctor did not reply. He never turned away from the window, but as the younger Doctor smiled to himself and turned away towards the exit, he could swear he saw the faintest smile creep up on the sides of the other’s lips…

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a wonderful song by the late Leonard Cohen (https://youtu.be/Dkyiu3GZ8eQ).


End file.
